“So I say to myself, ‘I’m going to check on Adelice. Talk it out, because I’m mature and responsible and so is she,’ and do you know what I found?” Dante asks as he plops onto the bench across from us.

“I bet you’re going to tell us,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. I’m not the least bit sorry for leaving the estate.

“Do you actively look for trouble?” Dante asks. “Or are you stupid?”

Erik’s arm pulls away from my shoulder, landing on the table as he leans toward Dante. “We’re not Kincaid’s property, and you would do well to remember that. We had business in the Icebox. That’s all you need to know.”

“Business in the Icebox, huh? Looks to me like you’re drinking gin in a speakeasy,” Dante says.

“Let’s go, Erik.” I scoot across the squeaking vinyl bench, but Dante holds his hand up.

“I’m sorry for what I said in the garden. You have to understand how hard it is for me to trust a Guild-trained Tailor,” Dante says.

“Half of Kincaid’s men were Guild, and you trust them,” I point out.

“That’s not entirely true.” But Dante doesn’t offer to elucidate for us.

“Why wouldn’t I trust Erik?” I ask, my voice growing with the clamor of the music. “He trusts me enough to tell me—”

“Ad,” Erik stops me. “It’s okay. Your father is right.”

“He’s not my father,” I say.

The table falls quiet, the music invading the silence between us. No one knows what to say—least of all me.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do, but if you leave without me, they’ll follow you,” Dante warns. “What did you come here looking for?”

I take a deep breath, willing my words not to shake with rage. “We’re looking for the loophole.”

“The loophole?” Dante repeats slowly.

“My mother told me about it,” I admit. Dante sinks back against the booth and takes a long swig of his drink.

“She’s trying to cause trouble,” Dante says.

“I know that,” I say. “It doesn’t mean I can’t learn anything from her.”

Dante’s eyes swivel to the door and back toward the dance floor. “We need to get out of here.”

“Why should we go anywhere with you?” Erik asks. His hand closes possessively over mine, but I draw it back.

“Because I have something to show you.”

Erik lifts my mink coat for me, and I shrug it over my shoulders. We both know we have to go with Dante. As we exit the speakeasy, my eyes stay on the ground. I expect my father to drag us straight back to the estate, but instead of leading us out into the quiet, black streets of the grey market, Dante gestures for us to follow him down a narrow alley wedged between buildings.

“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” Erik whispers.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” I ask, but for once I keep my hand threaded through his.

“Oh, I have not had enough gin for this kind of adventure,” Erik says.

We stop near a full-to-brimming Dumpster, and Dante glances around us. I doubt he can see anyone in the ink-black night, but thankfully that means they can’t see us either. Dante pushes on a stone and it sinks back into the wall as a slab slides over, revealing a hidden door.

“Someone is making a killing building hidden passages,” I mutter.

Inside the entrance it’s dark, but Dante flips on a handlight and starts into the darkness. The handlight provides enough illumination for us to see a few feet in front of us but not much more than that. Once we’ve walked for a few minutes—faithfully following Dante, despite the fact that we have no idea where we’re headed—he stops and shines the light on the wall. He flips open a panel, flicking some switches. A series of solar lights flares to life, dimly lighting the rest of the tunnel. With the lights on, some of my unease dissolves.

“Where are we?” Erik asks. If we’re far enough from the entrance to safely turn on the lights then it must be safe to ask questions.

“You wanted to know what a loophole is,” Dante says. “I’m taking you to one. There’s a crawler up ahead, we’ll take it to the ship.”

Ahead of us the tunnel seems to stretch on for miles. I’m simultaneously glad that I don’t have to walk the whole way and nervous to be back in a crawler. Dante hoists himself into the crawler and turns it on. Erik boosts me into the front seat and then jumps into the back. He leans over me and pulls a harness strap up over my shoulder.

“Buckle up,” he whispers.

I nod, not bothering to tell him the harness is the only thing convincing me to ride in the crawler.

“You don’t like these things, do you?” Dante asks.

“I do not,” I admit.

He grins at me, but I notice his own harness is buckled. “You aren’t a fan of many vehicles,” he says. “You didn’t like the motocycles either, and something tells me you’re going to like this even less than last time.”

“I am?” I whimper, tightening the straps that hold me in. Erik’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder but it does little to abate my fear. Dante is right. I don’t like being in the open air or the wild momentum of vehicles like this. A motocarriage is a smooth ride and, perhaps more important, it has a roof. But motocycles and crawlers feel out of control. There is nothing to grip, so I focus on Erik’s hand when the crawler lurches forward.